


down the rabbit hole

by whiplash



Category: Scorpion (TV 2014)
Genre: Anxiety Attacks, Anxiety Disorder, Exhaustion, Friendship, Gen, Nightmares, Season/Series 02 Spoilers, Team as Family
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-26
Updated: 2016-02-03
Packaged: 2018-05-16 10:17:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5824711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whiplash/pseuds/whiplash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During a mission away from the team Sylvester and Walter try (with varying success) to take care of each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The request from FSG comes early Tuesday morning. Everyone gears up to leave only for a couple of agents to arrive at their door to clarify that the FSG’s not interested in Scorpion as a team. They’re only there for Walter and Sylvester.

“Not an option,” Walter immediately responds. “We operate as a team.”

“It’s a software issue,” one of the FSG agents counter. “With all due respect to your team, Mr. O’Brian, we have no need for a mechanic. Or a shrink.”

He wisely stops there, though the way his eyes brush over Paige makes it clear that they have no need for a waitress either. Sylvester tentatively raises a hand, then drops it back down again as Happy frowns at him.

“We’re a package deal,” she says with a flat voice. Next to her Toby smiles, lips twisting to show off far too much teeth. To their credit, the FSG agents stand their ground.

“We have our orders,” the other agent states. “And if that’s not enough for you, we also have a mandate straight from the director of Homeland Security. Please feel free to check with her yourself. But after you’ve done that, I’m afraid we’re going to have to insist that Mr. O’Brian and Mr. Dodd follow us straight to the airport.”

“On it,” Cabe assures the team, his phone already pressed to one ear.

xxx

One terse argument and several long hours later, Sylvester finds himself stuck on a small plane on the way to an undisclosed location. Sweat’s trailing down his spine and gathering in the pits under his arms. Motion sickness battles anxiety for control over the rolling in his belly. Every hint of turbulence causes a new bout of retching and his eyelashes have clumped together, his vision blurred by involuntary tears.

“I hate this,” he mumbles, unthinkingly wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. A heartbeat later he stares at the bile-colored smear in horror, his breath catching in his throat and his mind blacking out. When a wet wipe appears out of nowhere, he snatches it without a second thought and rubs it frenetically against his skin.

“Thanks,” he belatedly remembers.

Next to him Walter hums in response and presses his knee briefly against Sylvester’s leg. Sylvester clings to the small gesture like he would to Paige’s kindness or Toby’s antics.

xxx

After they’ve arrived at the FSG bunker, Walter checks in with the team while Sylvester sets up their computer equipment. There are dozens of monitors set up in the small control room they’ve been directed to and the scrolling lines of code keep drawing his attention. He’s not the only one either. He’s caught Walter sneaking a peek or two as well, an intrigued look on his face.

“-threatening our autonomy,” Walter bitches down the phone. He inhales sharply, most likely about to say more on the subject. Instead he suddenly falls silent, scowling at the wall as he listens to whoever’s on the other end. It’s statistically likely to be Cabe, although Paige’s not an improbable option either. While they speak Sylvester continues with the set-up, his hands working on auto pilot as he splits his attention between eavesdropping and studying the bits of code flashing past on the screens. It doesn’t look like anything he’d expect to see at FSG. For one, it’s much too sophisticated for a government agency.

Perhaps, he thinks with a burst of uncharacteristic positive thinking, this won’t be so bad.

xxx

Sometimes he forgets just how well the two of them work together.

It’s a quiet but productive kind of companionship, the silence only broken when Walter rolls his chair close to peer over Sylvester’s shoulder and offer his input. After all the life-and-death missions they’ve worked lately, sitting behind a desk secretly strikes Sylvester as a more than welcome break. A few hours into their work, a rumble in his belly reminds him that he’s missed out on dinner. (And, well, technically lunch didn’t hang around long enough to do him much good either, but he tries not to dwell on that.)

A hamburger would be good. A couple of grilled cheese sandwiches even better.

“Soda,” he says instead, directing his request to the agent tasked with lurking by the door. She’s tall, with wide shoulders and a blonde pony-tail. “I need soda. Preferably cans, but a couple of two-liter bottles will also do and might save you time in the long run.”

They’ve been working in silence for hours, but when Sylvester speaks Walter begins to stir. He glances around the room, blinking once as his eyes fall on the analog clock on the wall and then again as a loud rumble fills the room. Sylvester wraps his arms around his grumbling belly, feeling his ears flush warm and pink.

“Oh,” Walter says. “Food. We need food too.”

The agent stares at them like they’re both imbeciles.

“It’s ten minutes to midnight,” she answers, speaking slowly and enunciating clearly. “You want food, Mr. O’Brian, you wait for breakfast. You want pop, Mr. Dodd, well, there’s a vending machine near your designated sleeping quarters.”

“Listen,” Walter begins, his voice taking on that unpleasant, superior lilt that usually results in people punching him in the face. Sylvester edges his chair away from his friend, inconspicuously looking around for a first aid kit.

“I don’t know what you’ve come to expect from female agents,” she interrupts, her eyes narrowing. “But I’m not paid to fetch beverages.“

“Understood,” Sylvester assures her, casting begging eyes at Walter in the hopes that it will keep his friend from annoying her further. The agent looks like she means business and neither Cabe nor Paige are around to save Walter from himself.

“Just like my male coworkers, I signed up to serve my country,” she continues stubbornly, “not to baby-sit.”

Things rapidly go downhill from there.

xxx

Soon afterwards they’re taken to their sleeping quarters. It’s a narrow room, equipped with a bunk bed and a single dresser. Before leaving the stone-faced agent informs them that the bathroom’s down the hall, near the, by now infamous, vending machine. The very moment the door closes behind her, Sylvester gives in to the anxiety that’s been building for the past half an hour. He sinks down on the bed, shoulders sagging and fingers pressing into the scratchy blanket. 

“I don’t like this,” he informs his room mate. “I don’t even know where the emergency exits are. What are we supposed to do in case of a fire?”

“A fire's statistically unlikely,” Walter mutters, not looking up from where he’s fiddling with his shirt buttons. He’s already pulled his tie loose and kicked off his shiny leather shoes. His backpack’s by his feet, the straps worn and the seams close to unravelling.

“You don’t know that,” Sylvester hisses back, taking refuge in annoyance even as the band around his chest tightens further. “Also, there’s no en suite bathroom. Tell me, Walter, how am I supposed to use a public bathroom?”

“Much the same way you would any other bathroom?”

Low EQ, Sylvester reminds himself as he huffs for air. Terrifyingly low EQ. But that knowledge does nothing to help with his growing anxiety. He presses two fingers against his carotid artery and squeezes his eyes shut. After an eternity of breathing exercises – inhale to a count of six, hold to a count of two, exhale to a count for eight – he becomes aware of Walter kneeling down next to him. He’s changed into a worn t-shirt and dark sweatpants. The outfit makes him look younger.

“C’mon,” he says, tapping Sylvester lightly on the knee. “Let’s go check out that bathroom. Then we’ll hack into the vending machine and score you some dinner.”

It’s not an apology but, at least, he’s trying. And just like on the plane, Sylvester clings to that.

xxx

The next morning they wake early and eat a bowl each of cold cereal from the cafeteria before going straight back to work.

In their small monitoring room pony-tail agent has been replaced by an equally tall and wide-shouldered co-worker. He has a buzz cut and a chiseled jaw. The dirty look he gives them makes it clear that he knows all about their confrontation with his predecessor. When Walter forgets about lunch, Sylvester doesn’t bring it up even as his belly begins to ache. He just hunches over his computer and loses himself in the complex strings of code. Over the next couple of days, he begins to hoard chocolate bars and cans of diet soda in the drawers of his assigned desk.

And, no, he doesn’t need Toby to point out that he’s regressed back to childhood habits.

xxx

“Have you ever considered surgery?” Walter groans over breakfast. It’s Friday morning and they’re only halfway done with the emergency software update.

“I’ve had surgery,” Sylvester reminds him as he pokes suspiciously at his egg and cheese breakfast sandwich. “Admittedly, my memory of the time around the time's a bit hazy, but the terrible scaring reminds me every time I take a shower so I'm pretty sure it happened.”

Walter grimaces. While it’s technically possible that it might be residual guilt gnawing at him, Sylvester imagines that it’s far more likely that it’s a reflection on the objectionable quality of the cafeteria food.

“For your snoring," Walter clarifies. "What about a CPAP? The continuous positive-“

“I know how a CPAP works,” Sylvester interrupts him. “I have one at home. Those FSG agents didn’t really give us the time to go home and pack though, now did they?”

Walter hums, scooping up a spoonful of cereal from his bowl only to allow it to drop back into the milk.

“Sleep apnea’s a medical condition connected to heart disease and a higher incidence of cancer mortality,” Sylvester points out, voice sharp as he dissects his sandwich. As he’s suspected all along, the yolk’s much too runny. “It can also result in lowered cognitive function during the day.”

“I’m aware,” Walter says. “In fact, lowered cognitive function happens to be my main concern at the moment. Mine, not yours.”

He flashes a smile at Sylvester, so ridiculously proud of his attempt at humor that Sylvester can’t hold onto his grudge. Also, Walter really does look exhausted. Even his curls seem to have lost some of their bounce.

“Sorry,” Sylvester offers. “I could ask for another room…?”

“Nah,” comes the quick answer. “We’re a team. We stick together.”

Sylvester grins. Go, team Scorpion. 


	2. Chapter 2

The software they’re working on isn’t American, this much has been clear from day one. Stolen technology, Walter had communicated with an inelegant snort and a wry twist of his lips. No wonder that the FSG had needed Scorpion to figure out how to update it. Not Chinese though, Sylvester had contributed by raising his eyebrows. Together they excluded the other most likely countries – Japan, South Korea, Russia – without exchanging more than a handful of words.

“Maybe it’s alien,” Sylvester suggests Saturday evening. It’s a joke. (Mostly.) Walter scoffs.

“A hybrid,” he counters. “Two minds with vastly different backgrounds, working together towards a common goal, with this as the end result. The capacity of the software’s fairly impressive, I’ll give you that, but I’d expect better from aliens.”

Even for Sly, it’s impossible to tell if the man’s joking.

xxx

“Yes, we’re remembering to eat,” Walter says. He has the phone wedged between his shoulder and his ear and his eyes locked on the screen in front of him. It’s not impossible, Sylvester reflects as he takes another bite of his chocolate bar, that Walter genuinely believes that he’s telling the truth. Especially if Paige didn’t remember to specify her parameters.

“We’re fine,” Walter continues. “Sylvester’s fine. I’m fine. Everything’s fine.”

Rolling his eyes, Sylvester scoots close enough to snatch the phone from his friend.

“-dictionary definition of that word,” he hears as he lifts the phone to his ear, Paige’s voice caught somewhere between fondness and exasperation. “I’m so getting you a thesaurus for your birthday.”

“I don’t think he needs one. Except maybe to use as a paperweight.”

“Sylvester!” she exclaims. “Are you okay?”

“My lower back hurts,” Sylvester immediately informs her, happy to be able to share with someone who’ll at least pretend to care. “The chairs here represent an ergonomic nightmare and the cafeteria food’s terrible. I don’t think they’d pass a food safety inspection. Oh, and the FSG people all hate us.”

“Ah, the O'Brien–effect in action,” Toby says, his voice tinny but recognizable. “I may or may not have written a paper about that particular phenomenon. If anyone has any suggestions for a witty yet informative title, I’m all ears.”

“You’re on speaker phone,” Paige adds, somewhat belatedly. “We’re all here. Even Cabe.”

“If they’re not treating you right, you need to tell Walter,” Happy interrupts. “Don’t take any crap from them, Sly. If you need us to back you up on this, just let us know.”

“We figured out your location Tuesday afternoon,” Toby adds. “We could be there in four hours. Three if Happy's driving.”

“How about, this time, we try not to be the cause of yet another inter-agency shitfest?”

Cabe might sound gruff, yet Sylvester’s certain that the agent would be the first to knock on the door – alternatively kick it in – should they need back-up. And the others would be right there behind him. How had Walter explained it to Ralph? Oh, right. If one Scorpion’s attacked, the rest of the cyclone dives in to defend it.

“We miss you,” Paige’s saying now. “Ralph and I watched the trailer for the Super Fun Guy movie last night. We’re looking forward to seeing it with you when you get back. As for the food, maybe you could focus on getting pre-packaged items?”

Sylvester promises that he will – it’s not a lie, after all, everything in the vending machine comes pre-packaged – and allows the team’s chatter to wash over him like rays of sunshine after a week of rain.

xxx

“Oh,” Walter says, breaking a long stretch of silent focus. “How’s Ferret Bueller?”

“Doing good,” Sylvester assures him. “Apparently Ralph’s been playing with it so it’s had plenty of time outside the cage.”

Walter makes a pleased noise. Then they go back to working in silence.

xxx

Sunday night Sylvester wakes with a start.

Something’s wrong, only he can’t put his finger on exactly what. The darkness’ compact and the room silent except for Walter’s even breathing. As his eyes fall shut again, Sylvester listens to the steady flow of air – in and out, in and out – from the bed above his. He’s almost allowed it to lull him back to sleep before the realization hits him. Breathing that evenly doesn’t come naturally. Sylvester, of all people, should know that.

“You okay, Walt?” he asks, pitching his voice low so that he won’t startle his friend.

“Just a dream,” comes the answer. Walter’s voice’s rough though, much like when he’d been balanced 300 feet over the ground and bleeding out from his spleen. “Go back to sleep, Sly. I’m fine.”

Maybe Paige’s right, Sylvester admits. A thesaurus might not be a bad idea. Wiggling free from underneath the blankets he sits up, perching on the very edge of the narrow bed with his bare feet planted on the cold floor. There’s no light source in the room so no chance for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. For a little while, he just stares into the darkness.

“Bad dream?” he finally asks, even though that’s a stupidly redundant question. Even without eidetic memory it would be hard not to recall Walter yelling at Cabe at the neurotoxin research facility. _I don’t sleep_ , he’d claimed. _Recurring nightmares_. Although, of course, Sylvester had known about the nightmares already. Just like he knows about Happy’s periodic bouts of insomnia and Toby’s – sometimes hilarious, sometimes heartbreaking – episodes of somniloquy. Experiencing it up close’s different though.

At his question, Walter’s steady breathing rhythm breaks. Instead the air seems to hitch in his lungs, the miserable sound loud and undeniable in the small room. Suddenly reminded of the observer’s effect – how the very act of observing a phenomenon will change it – Sylvester feels a stab of guilt. Instead of helping his friend, he might very well just have made it all that much worse.

“Sorry,” he blurts out. “Sorry. I’ll be quiet.”

Walter doesn’t answer.

xxx

The next morning’s awkward. There are bags under Walter’s eyes and Sylvester’s chest feels tight. He rubs at it absently, knuckles dragging against his sternum. He doesn't know what to do. Doesn't know how to be a good friend. If only Paige was here, he thinks as he leans forward to put on his sneakers. Or Toby, or Cabe or even Happy. Anyone but Sylvester. He doesn’t know anything. Can’t do anything. In fact, he can’t even tie his stupid shoe laces.

Blinking away tears he struggles to form a loop again. His hands seem too big and his fingers too fat. They tingle, growing increasingly number for each shallow breath. Useless. For all his big brain he’s just useless. It’s first when the door closes though – announcing the fact that Walter’s left the room – that he’s finally able to breathe.

And eventually he even gets his shoelaces tied.

xxx

“Five days,” the agent says. It’s not Pony Tail, nor Buzz Cut but a senior agent. Short and stout with a disappointed look on his face as he listens to Walter’s update. “I have to admit, Mr. O’Brian, based on the reputation of your team, we had expected more progress by now. “

“You’re the ones who made the call to install experimental software on hardware that couldn’t support it,” Walter points out. “Now you need that software updated to keep your hardware from crashing only, because the technology’s _clearly_ stolen, you have no-“

This is why they need Paige, Sylvester thinks as he tunes out the rest of the conversation. This is why they operate best as a team. Alone, they’re just pieces of a puzzle.

The ache’s back in his chest again. Or perhaps it never left. He scowls at his computer screen and the stupid, troublesome code.

“We’re forced to rewrite most of it from scratch, line by line,” Walter’s voice continues, his voice loud and flatly incredulous. “If it wasn’t for us, you’d have a team of your best men working on this for the next couple of years just to run damage control!”

Sylvester doesn’t hear the agent’s answer. He just wants to go home.

**Author's Note:**

> First story in this fandom, so I can only hope I got the characterization right :)
> 
> Two more chapters to come. One already written, one plotted out but still WiP.


End file.
